Dead Sea

Chapter Five

I don’t remember much about that first night onboard the Spratling. We were all dehydrated, exhausted, and stressed from our ordeal, and after a while, things just kind of blurred together. When the ship was safely away from the city, and far enough out into the Chesapeake Bay that the fires were just a dim glow on the horizon, everyone relaxed a little more. But there was still a lot to do. Mitch and I had to find sleeping quarters for the kids—the older man in the coast guard uniform called them “berthing areas”—and a place for ourselves as well. We ended up together in a room with six racks—bunk beds—three on each side. The mattress on each rack lifted up to reveal a small, narrow storage space. Each of us also had a small footlocker to store things in. We didn’t have many belongings. I pulled out my wallet and my keys and put them inside a locker. It seemed weird. Might as well have tossed them over the side for all the good they’d do me now. The keys were all for a life I’d left behind, a life I’d never return to. And the wallet was empty—no pictures, no money. I’d never had much use for snapshots. And money? Well, I’d never had much of that, either. And now, I didn’t need them. What good was money when there was nothing to buy? What good were photographs of friends and family when all of them were dead? I didn’t have many people that I cared about, but those I did I could remember in my head. If I looked at their pictures now, I’d just see them as zombies.

Mitch pulled a small rifle cleaning kit out of his backpack and went to work on the guns, using long cotton swabs to get the debris and residue out of the barrels, and then oiling them down. He explained each step to the three of us as he went along, so that we’d be able to do it, too. When he was finished, he stowed our weapons beneath his mattress and slid one pistol under his pillow. He didn’t unload his backpack; instead, he stuffed it between his rack and the bulkhead. Then he took off his boots and lay down. We all did the same. Each bed had a tiny feather pillow, one sheet, and a thin gray blanket that felt like it was made out of horse hair—very rough and scratchy. They smelled musty and mildewed.

“This pillow stinks,” I complained.

“Mine does, too.” Tasha wrinkled her nose. “Smells like a zombie.”

“They should,” Mitch said. “They’ve probably been sitting on this boat for the last twenty years.”

I propped myself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

“This is a museum ship,” he explained. “The Spratling is a piece of American history, so rather than sending it to the scrap yard to be cut up into razor blades, the maritime museum preserved it and turned it into a floating tourist trap, just like all the other ships at Inner Harbor.”

“Okay,” I said, “but what’s that got to do with why these pillows smell funky?”

“Think about it, Lamar. This is a museum. A tourist attraction. How long have you lived in Baltimore?”

I shrugged. “All my life.”

“And in all that time you never took a tour of the ships? Not even when the Taney was here?”

“No. I mean, I knew about them. Knew a little of their history. But I never toured one.”

“Damn. Well, I guess I can’t say anything. All the years I lived in Towson, I never came downtown and visited Edgar Allan Foe’s grave.”

That told me something about him. Towson was the suburbs, way out on the edge of the city. I wondered what had brought Mitch down into Fells Point.

“Were you a fan of Foe’s?” I asked.

“Sure. Read the shit out of him when I was in the ninth grade. My grandfather gave me a big collection of all his stories. My favorite was always “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.’” He chuckled. “It takes place on a boat, now that I think about it—a ship sailing to the South Pole.”

“So if you dug the man’s work, why not visit his grave?”

“Didn’t feel like getting shot. That’s a bad area of town, isn’t it?”

I shrugged again. “When you actually live down here in the city, all of it’s a bad area, Mitch. That’s just how things are. You get used to it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I can see that.”

But I knew he’d never really understand it. He couldn’t. He had no frame of reference; only what he’d watched on episodes of Homicide or The Wire. Tasha and Malik knew it, too. They didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. The expressions on their faces said enough. Mitch was from a different world.

“Well,” Mitch continued, “the Spratling has always been a pretty popular attraction. Not just with tourists, either. They do weddings and stuff onboard, too. So there are a lot of people that have tromped through here over the years. When people come aboard this thing, they want to experience exactly what it was like for the men who served. They’d board via the gangplank, just like we did. Then, the tour guide would take them around above deck and show them everything. Answer all their questions. Then they’d go below, down the original stairways—except on a ship they’re called ladders—just like the crew would. And just like any other museum, there’d be stuff all around on the tour: old photos, the captain’s log, shit like that. And of course, they’d keep the racks made up just as they would have been when the Spratling was still on active duty.”

“You mean—”

“That’s right. Your pillow stinks because thousands of tourists have walked through here over the years and got their funk on it. Housewives from Illinois saying, ‘Hey, George, lay down on the bed just like a sailor would and I’ll take your picture with the kids.’ Think about it.”

My nose wrinkled. “That’s gross.”

Exhausted from our ordeal, Tasha and Malik fell asleep soon after. Mitch and I lay there in the darkness, not speaking, not wanting to disturb them. The kids had the top racks on each side. Mitch and I had taken the bottom bunks. The other two beds remained empty, and I figured there must be enough berthing areas that we wouldn’t have to share our quarters with two more strangers. Tasha snored softly, and Malik cried out once, and then was still. I wondered what they were dreaming about. Were they reliving the day or creating zombies out of loved ones in their sleep? I’d done that in the past-pondered the dreams of various partners as they slept beside me, presuming to know and understand their dreams and nightmares since I didn’t have any of my own.

Eventually, Mitch crawled out of his bunk and flashed a pack of cigarettes, indicating that he was going outside for a smoke. I nodded, and he tiptoed to the door and opened the hatch. Despite his efforts to be quiet, the steel door clanged when he shut it behind him. The kids didn’t stir.

The ship rocked gently back and forth. You didn’t really notice it unless you tried to walk around or if you were lying on your back. That was when the sensation became strongest. It was a constant, steady swaying. My stomach lurched each time it rolled. Sour bile burned the back of my throat. My eardrums throbbed. I wondered if it was just seasickness or some kind of delayed shock from the night’s events. I was exhausted, but didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. And then I did. Fell asleep thinking about Alan and the supermarket and the bitch I’d shot in the head.

If I dreamed, I don’t remember it.

I never did.

The next day, I saw for myself what Mitch had meant. The Spratling really was nothing more than a floating museum. All of the ship’s original interior features had been restored, but much of the equipment was inactivated. I wondered what worked and what didn’t. Luckily for us, it was still able to sail. Throughout the ship were framed mementos of its years of service: uniforms, replicas of weaponry, old photographs, pages from the ship’s logs, menus, and other things. Many of these were set up behind glass displays complete with recorded sound effects and narration, and red velvet ropes to keep the tourists from getting too close.

We found the showers easily enough, but they weren’t working. A white guy named Murphy was standing at the sink, peering into a cracked mirror as he shaved with no soap, water, or shaving cream. He winced with each scrape of the dry razor. His big nose was lined with the red veins of alcoholism. After introducing himself, he gave us a bottle of spring water so that we could at least brush our teeth. Mitch had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack. Tasha, Malik, and I used our fingers for toothbrushes. We didn’t have any clean clothes, either. My pants felt crusty and stiff. If I’d leaned them up in the corner, they could have stood by themselves. A middle-aged white woman in the next berthing compartment, who introduced herself as Joan Barnett, lent Tasha a T-shirt, but Malik and I were shit out of luck. Mitch had one spare pair of clean underwear in his backpack, but that was all. I noticed that after he’d washed up and dressed, he holstered a pistol at his side. The other weapons were still stashed in our berthing compartment.

Most of the people onboard the ship had gathered in the galley. A guy named Cleveland Hooper and an Asian dude named Tran were serving breakfast—little boxes of cereal, canned pineapple, granola bars, and Jell-O. No bacon or eggs or pancakes or fresh fruit; that would have all spoiled by now. There was coffee but no milk; just the little packets of sugar and powdered creamer. They had plenty of bottled water, though, and concentrated orange juice, which tasted better than anything I’d ever drunk in my life. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had orange juice.

“Good to see you, brother,” Hooper said as he put some pineapple chunks on my tray.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“’Cause we the only two niggas onboard this ship. Everyone else is white, except for Tran here, and he don’t speak no English. It’s just you and me, player. We can divide up the women. Show them some good dick.”

“Yeah?” I feigned heterosexuality and tried to sound interested, but all I really wanted to do was eat. The sooner I could get out of this conversation, the better.

“Hell, yeah, man. It’s pussy central, brother. There’s some honeys onboard. Just hope half of ’em ain’t dykes. Know what I’m saying?”

My expression hardened. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying. And I’m not your brother. Don’t call me that again.”

Hooper put down his ladle. “What’s your problem, dog?”

“You. You’re my fucking problem.”

I walked away, rather than let it turn into a fight. Behind me, I heard him muttering that I was an Uncle Tom. I sat down next to Mitch. Tasha and Malik sat on the other side of us. My shoulders felt tense, my jaw tight. The ship continued to roll.

“All the people left alive, and that homophobic asshole had to be one of them. We should have left him behind.”

Malik stopped chewing and looked up at me. “What’d that word he used mean? Dyke. What is that?”

“It’s a bad word,” I said. “People use it when talking about women who are gay, but it’s not very nice.”

“Gay?” Malik nibbled his granola bar. “So a dyke is like a girl fag?”

“Malik, don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“Fag. Faggot. It’s not a nice word. Do you know what it means?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. It’s when two guys is kissing and hugging on each other.”

“That’s one way to describe it, I guess.” I shook my head. “In any case, you shouldn’t say it.”

“Why not? All my friends say it.”

I sighed. “Remember when we were at your apartment last night?”

Both of the kids’ faces grew sullen for a moment. I immediately felt guilty for stirring up bad memories.

“Yeah,” Malik said. “I remember.”

“Do you remember when you said nigga and I told you not to? Told you what it really meant?”

“Uh-huh. I felt bad after it. You ain’t ignorant, and that’s what it meant. I ain’t gonna say it no more.”

“I bet your friends called you nigga, right? But they probably didn’t know what it meant, either. But has anyone ever called you a nigger?”

“With an ‘r’ on the end?”

I nodded.

His expression hardened. “Once, a long time ago. There was this white dude on the light rail when we was coming back from the grocery store. Tasha and me and our momma was all in the same seat and he couldn’t find one. Had to stand and hang on to the rail. He said under his breath, ‘No seats except for the niggers.’ I don’t think he meant for us to hear it, but we did. It pissed me off. I wanted to kick his behind, but Momma and Tasha said not to.”

“Yes, we did,” Tasha agreed.

“How did it make you feel when he called you that, Malik?”

“Bad. It hurt my feelings. I… I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.”

“Well, the same thing happens when you say fag. It hurts gay people’s feelings.”

“Yeah, but there ain’t no gay people around here, Lamar.”

I turned to Mitch and winked. He frowned in confusion. Then I turned back to Malik.

“How do you know there aren’t any gay people around here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t for sure, I guess. There just ain’t.”

“Malik, I’m gay.”

He stared at me, mouth open in astonishment, half-chewed granola bar stuck to his tongue.

“Y-you’re gay, Lamar? You like other guys?”

I nodded, smiling. “I sure am, and yes, I do. And when you say fag or faggot, it hurts my feelings just as bad as when someone calls us niggers. Faggots were bundles of sticks that people used to start fires with. When you call someone a fag, you’re really saying that you want to burn them alive, even if you aren’t aware of it. So don’t do that anymore, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that’s what it meant.”

“That’s all right, buddy. Now you do.”

“Damn straight, and I won’t say it no more.”

The kids went back to eating. I picked up my coffee cup and noticed that Mitch was staring at me.

“What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you have a problem with me being gay.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender and laughed. “Hey, man, like I told you before, I just sell the Bible. Doesn’t mean I believe what it says—especially the bit about men lying down with other men. I couldn’t care less. Too much hate in the world. Nothing wrong with a little more love.”

“So then what are you smiling at?”

“You, man. I was just thinking that you’re pretty good when it comes to kids. You must have been a teacher or a coach or something. Am I right?”

“Not even close,” I told him. “I worked at the Ford plant, until it shut down.”

I didn’t tell him the rest, didn’t mention the robbery at the dealership or the money I’d gotten away with—money that was gone as soon as I paid the bills.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember reading about that in the Baltimore Sun. Lot of guys lost their jobs.”

“It was tough,” I agreed, then switched topics. “So, Mitch—how did you end up in Fells Point? You were a long way from Towson, weren’t you?”

When he answered, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’d rather not talk about it. You cool with that, Lamar?”

“Sure, man. That’s okay.”

“Thanks.”

Sounded like we both had secrets that we didn’t want to share. I figured that was okay. Maybe being on this ship, sailing away from our homes, was a chance to reinvent ourselves—find out who we really were. The past was behind us. The past was dead—or maybe undead.

We went back to eating. I studied Hooper and Tran, tried to figure out if they’d assigned themselves as the ship’s unofficial cooks or if they’d just decided to help out for the morning because nobody else would. There were a dozen people in the room, not counting the two of them and us. None of the people eating breakfast looked military. Judging from their conversations, most of them had been in the same situation we were in the night before-fleeing the flames and the zombies, and then happening upon the boat. Apparently the guy we’d met in the coast guard uniform had been hiding out on the ship at the time. When he saw what was happening, he’d decided to pull out to sea. Same plan I’d had. Great minds think alike and all that shit.

Joan, the woman who loaned a T-shirt to Tasha, joined us at our table. While she was there she told us her story. She’d been trapped in a bathroom for the last two weeks. Two zombies had chased her inside, but when they finally lost interest and left, the door was jammed and she couldn’t get it open. The creatures had battered the doorknob till it was useless. The bathroom had no windows and no other exits. She drank water from the toilet bowl and survived by eating toilet paper and cough drops. She’d considered eating a bottle of ibuprofen as well, but decided to save them instead in case she needed to commit suicide. Lucky for her, she didn’t have to. Three other survivors found her while they were looting the house, and freed her from the bathroom. Two of them were killed later on—one by a zombie and the other by a sniper. The third had run away during the sniper attack and she didn’t know what had happened to him. If he’d stayed in Baltimore, he was probably dead by now.

We didn’t talk much after she told us her story. Too busy eating. Joan was ravenous, and so were the rest of us. I’d had nothing since the fruit cocktail at my place the evening before. Already, it seemed like long ago, but in reality, it had been less than twelve hours. Malik asked me if he could have seconds and I told him I didn’t see any trouble with that. When he’d left the table, Mitch took a sip of coffee and shifted uncomfortably.

“What’s up?”

“Just thinking.” He set his coffee mug down. It slid about a quarter of an inch as the ship rolled. Mitch’s complexion paled.

“Seasick?” I asked, trying not to let on that I felt the same.

“A little, maybe,” he admitted. “But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Just wondering how much food we have onboard. I mean, I can’t imagine any of this is the ship’s stores. Must have been brought on after Hamelin’s Revenge.”

“I’m just happy for anything,” Joan said.

“Me, too,” Mitch agreed. “So is there anyone in charge of inventory or rationing?”

Before Joan or I could answer, there was a sudden burst of electronic feedback, and the ship’s public address speakers crackled.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Chief Maxey is my name.

You can call me Wade or Chief or Captain—whatever you like. I’d like all hands to muster on the flight deck, located aft, at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you have companions still sleeping in their racks, please wake them and have them join us. I thought a brief orientation might be in order, since we all seem to have been thrown together like this. Thank you.”

There was another burst of static and then the speaker cut off.

“What’s he mean by muster?” Joan asked.

Tasha shrugged. “And where’s the aft deck?”

“What time did he say,” a man called out from across the room. “Oh nine what?”

“Folks, if I could…” An old man stood up. He was short, and his thin white hair was disheveled. He wore a dirty suit and thick trifocals that kept sliding down his face. He pushed them back up and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” someone shouted back. Then more people joined in.

The old man blinked, grinning sheepishly, clearly embarrassed. The he cleared his throat and continued.

“My name is Professor Williams. Well, actually, my real name is Steven Williams, but my friends and family have always called me Professor, since I am one. Was one, I mean. Before retirement and before—well, before what happened to all of us. Anyway, just to clarify what our captain said, aft is the rear of the ship. I believe if you exit out of that hatch back there, what you call a door, and work your way along the catwalk on this side of the ship, you’ll come to the aft deck. Can’t miss it, really—big, black, flat area. The requested time was nine o’clock, which is about ten minutes from now.”

“Thanks, Professor,” another man called out. There was a sarcastic edge to the stranger’s voice, and the old man blushed. He sat down quickly and stared at his tray.

I stood up and emptied my tray in the garbage can. Then I stopped at his table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was busy packing a pipe, and he jumped when I touched him, spilling tobacco onto the table. The professor looked up at me. He seemed very small.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Didn’t mean to make you spill.”

“Oh, it wasn’t you. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.”

“Well, I just wanted to say thanks for that explanation, man. I was never in the military, so it all sounded like Greek to me until you spoke up.”

He smiled, flashing a set of false teeth. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Reed. Lamar Reed.” I stuck out my hand and he shook it.

“Professor Steven Williams. Just call me Professor. But of course, you already know that.”

“Hey Lamar,” Malik yelled across the galley. “Can I get thirds?”

“Save some for everyone else,” I said.

“But I’m still hungry.”

“Don’t be a pig.” Tasha elbowed him in the ribs.

I turned back to the old man while Mitch quieted the kids down.

“They’re lovely children,” the professor said. “It’s actually nice to see children again. Nice to see anyone, really, I suppose. I’ve spent the last month sequestered in a storage room at the public library. I had plenty to read but no one to talk to. It was a very lonely existence.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That would be tough.”

“They seem very well-behaved.”

“They’re pretty good kids.”

“Are you their father?”

“No. No, I’m just watching out for them. We crossed paths last night. They helped me out so I took them under my wing.”

He smiled again. “Ah, so you are the protector, then. The hero archetype.”

“Excuse me?”

“The hero. Are you familiar with the works of Joseph Campbell?”

“Can’t say that I am.”

“Well, then you must read The Hero With a Thousand Faces. It’s all about mythic archetypes. Understand those and you have the key to unraveling the riddle of life itself. Fascinating material, really. Most scholars prefer his other books: The Mythic Image and The Masks of God, but I was never one for popular convention. Come find me later and I’ll explain all about it. You’re on a quest, Mr. Reed, and you are fulfilling a role.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. Meanwhile, I had no clue what he was babbling about, and no time to wonder. There were more important things to worry ourselves with. Such as Mitch’s idea of food rationing and exactly what destination—if any—Chief Maxey had in mind for us.

I found out soon enough. When we were done eating breakfast, the four of us filed outside, joined once again by Joan. Slowly, the rest of the passengers assembled on the flight deck. The sun hung high in the sky, bright and hot. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I shielded my eyes against the glare and studied our companions. I counted eighteen of us total, and I learned that there was one more person, a guy named Turn, who was piloting the ship while the rest of us had our little powwow. Apparently Turn was a retired harbormaster, and Chief Maxey had made him second-in-command.

Mitch sniffed the air and breathed deep. “Smell that salt air? Man, I love that sea breeze.”

I grinned. “Know what else?”

“What’s that?”

“For the first time in over a month, I don’t smell rotting corpses.”

He shuddered. “You’re right. I hadn’t even noticed. As horrible as it sounds, I guess I’d gotten used to it.”

Another hatch banged open and Chief Maxey walked out onto the deck. His stride had purpose, and the expression on his face was all business. He wore the same uniform he’d had on the night before, and a pair of black sunglasses. He had us gather around him in a circle and silently studied each of us for a moment.

“Good morning.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout over the waves or the engines or the screeching birds that followed the ship, hoping for a handout. He didn’t have to. The man had presence. Even though he was an overweight, middle-aged white guy in a dirty coast guard uniform and hat, and even though he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days and had salt and pepper stubble on his face, the man commanded our attention. There was no doubt that he was in charge.

“I’d like to welcome each of you onboard the United States Coast Guard Cutter Spratling. I’m sorry that it can’t be under better circumstances. We weren’t properly introduced last night, and I’m sorry for that, too. If I was gruff with you, just ignore it. We were in a tense situation and I didn’t have time for pleasantries. My priority was getting us away from the harbor. Also, I want to thank those of you who volunteered to help last night. Your willingness to chip in probably saved all our lives.”

The crowd murmured thanks and then Maxey cleared his throat and continued.

“We’ve got a lot to cover, so make yourselves comfortable. I figure that first we—”

A man in front of me put his hand up. He was short and balding, and his scalp was beet red from sunburn. I wondered where he’d spent his time hiding from the zombies. Maybe a rooftop somewhere?

“Yes?” The chief pointed at him. “You have a question?”

“Sure do, Chief. If this is gonna take a while, why don’t we move back inside to the galley where it’s a lot more comfortable and cooler?”

Maxey’s smile was tight. “I’m sorry, Mister…?”

“Basil. My name’s Basil Martin.”

“Well, Mr. Martin, the reason we’re not going inside is because I need your attention. If you’re too comfortable, then chances are your attention will drift. You might even nod off. I wouldn’t blame you, of course. I’m sure each and every one of you has been through quite an ordeal. But if you quit paying attention, then you might as well jump overboard right now. Because I intend to stay alive. And as captain of this vessel, it’s my job to make sure you folks do the same. I can’t protect you unless you help me, and to do that, I need to make you fully aware of our situation. So I need your full attention. Clear?”

Blushing, Basil nodded, and then slipped past us to the back row.

“Now,” the chief continued, “as I was saying, I figured we’d start with the basics. I’ll tell you who I am and a little bit about the Spratling. Give you an overview of our situation. Then I’d like to know a little bit about each of you—especially any skills or trades you might have, or military or law enforcement experience. Let’s start with a head count.”

He paused, surveying the crowd. Then he nodded at Hooper.

“Where’s the other guy? Tran? Wasn’t he helping you with breakfast?”

“He’s in the galley doing dishes. Don’t matter none. Motherfucker can’t speak English anyway.”

The chief frowned, but continued with his count. I got the impression that he felt the same way about Cleveland Hooper as I did.

“Okay,” Chief Maxey said. “So, counting the absent Mr. Tran, and our second mate Turn, who is piloting the ship while we’re down here, there are twenty of us onboard.”

Joan timidly raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But last night, after we’d gotten underway, I thought I counted twenty-one.”

“Yes ma’am, you did.”

“But you said there were twenty, counting the two men who are absent. Aren’t we missing somebody else?”

“There were twenty-one. One member of our party was bitten sometime before he came aboard. He tried to hide it from us, but we discovered it early this morning, before most of you were awake. We removed him from the ship immediately.”

Joan stuttered. “W-who? Who did that?”

“Turn and I, and Mr. Runkle.

“Mr. Runkle?”

“Yes, he’s standing there to your left.”

We all looked at Mr. Runkle, a large man, probably in his late thirties, physically fit and hair cropped short. I made him for a cop right away. It was in the way he carried himself. Chief Maxey confirmed my suspicions a second later.

“Mr. Runkle is a Baltimore City police officer. We asked for his help as soon as we were aware of the situation.”

“Hi. Steven Runkle. Just call me Steve.”

A few of us nodded at him, but our attention was on the chief. I noticed the professor step away from the group. Frowning, he lit his pipe and puffed on it. The smoke smelled like cherries. In the sudden silence, the roaring waves seemed to grow louder. Seagulls squawked above us, perched on one of the antennas.

“I’m sorry,” a redheaded woman said, “but what exactly do you mean when you say you ‘removed him from the ship’? Weren’t we already out to sea by then?”

Chief Maxey nodded. “That’s correct. And what is your name, Ma’am?”

“Never mind my name! You threw him overboard? You killed him?”

“No,” Runkle said. “We didn’t kill him. The bite did that. He was already dying. You’ve all seen how fast the sickness works. The times vary depending on the person, but the end result is the same. Unless you totally incinerate the body or destroy its brain, it comes back after death. He’d have been dead in a few more minutes, and then…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

“If it’s any consolation,” the chief muttered, “we made sure that he didn’t suffer.”

I braced myself for the expected outcry, but surprisingly there was none. A few people looked unhappy about it, a few more looked queasy, but nobody objected out loud. This was a new world with new laws. You did what you had to in order to stay alive. All of them had survived this long—they knew what it took. To remain human, you had to give up a little bit of your humanity. I’d done stuff I wasn’t proud of—shooting Alan, for example. But something else was bothering me, too. If the guy had been bitten but was still alive when they threw him overboard, what happened after he drowned? Did he still turn into a zombie? Hamelin’s Revenge was already in his bloodstream. Did he wake up on the bottom of the ocean and start attacking the fish? I wondered again if the disease could transfer to marine life.

“So there are twenty of us,” Chief Maxey said once more. “That should give me a better idea of how long the ship’s stores will last. Not that we really have any. But we’ll get to that in a minute. First, let me tell you about myself and about your new home. If you didn’t hear me before, my name is.SMC Wade Maxey, United States Coast Guard, retired. Specifically, I was a signalman. SMC stands for Signalman Chief. I actually served onboard the Spratling in the eighties, and when she was finally decommissioned in 1987 and turned into a historic attraction, I was hired by the Maritime Museum to serve as a curator and tour guide. Believe me when I tell you that nobody knows this ship better than me. I’m a part of her and she’s a part of me, and I’m glad they saved her from the scrap yard. Usually, when they’re no longer seaworthy, those old ships are cut up and sold for scrap by their owners before they become completely worthless. Only a few of the really old ones have survived. Most of the time, that’s because of dumb luck. And sometimes, they escape the scrap yards because of their historical significance, as was the case with the Spratling. The coast guard felt it was an important vessel.”

As Maxey talked, I wondered how much of his speech was from his normal tour recital and how much was for our benefit. I had to give him credit. Despite his warning about putting us to sleep, he held everybody, including the kids, spellbound.

“The USCGC Spratling,” he continued proudly, “is significant because she is one of the last of the fleet’s high endurance cutters. With the exception of our polar ice breakers, these are—or were—the largest class of vessel in the coast guard’s fleet. The Spratling is just under four hundred feet long, has a beam of forty-five feet, and weighs a little over three thousand, two hundred and fifty tons. She was a sister vessel to the USCGC Taney, the only ship that was left’ floating during the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. As you might remember, the Taney was also docked at the Inner Harbor until a year ago, when she was sent to the shipyards in Norfolk for major refitting and preservation work. The Spmtling became the sole military vessel attraction after that. The Spratling was named for former Secretary of State William B. Spratling, who was a former college roommate of President Jeffrey Tyler. Please do not hold that against her.”

The crowd laughed politely, and Joan applauded.

“She is one of the last three treasury-class coast guard cutters still left afloat. The Spratling and her various crews have served our country proudly for over sixty years. During that time, she’s been through a lot. She saw combat in both World War Two and Vietnam, and was also called upon to assist civilians during Hurricane Agnes in the seventies and more recently, along the Gulf Coast after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. During my, service aboard the Spratling, she was a vital asset in drug interdiction, search and rescue operations, border enforcement, and fisheries protection. While these may sound mundane to you, they are anything but. They can be—and were—very dangerous operations. She also participated in the search for John E Kennedy, Jr. after his plane crashed. She’s seen a lot of history, and I’m proud to serve aboard her. I hope that you’re all proud to be here, as well. Now, if you look forward, you’ll notice that big dome on top of the pilot house. While we’re doing that, everybody wave to Turn.”

We did, and behind the pilot house window, Turn waved back. He looked embarrassed.

“That dome,” Chief Maxey explained, “is a special storm-tracking antenna. In addition to its other duties, the Spratling also helped track storms for many years, until the use of more sophisticated storm-tracking satellites and radars became common. The antenna was reinstalled for posterity when she became a museum. Sadly, it is not active.”

I stared at the dome. A seagull was perched on top of it, watching us with interest.

“Now,” the chief continued, “for the nuts and bolts. We are powered by two diesel engines and two gas turbines with controllable-pitch screws. We have enough fuel onboard to last us about two weeks. Our top speed is just over twenty-one knots per hour. Not too shabby, folks. We also have two Boyle and Snyder boilers—a very dependable manufacturer. Luckily, the boilers are still operational and I know how to operate them, or else we’d still be sitting at the harbor. In truth, there’s not much that I don’t know how to do onboard this ship.

“As you can see, we are equipped with a helicopter flight deck. You’re standing on it, in fact. We also have a retractable hangar, which is still operational even though we no longer have the facilities to support helicopter deployment. The weapons systems are still functional, too. After years of service and several tours of duty, the Spratling was totally refitted and relaunched in 1965. One of the showcase displays in the galley contains newspaper clippings of the event. She was modernized again through the fleet rehabilitation and modernization program in 1979. Actually, she was one of the first coast guard vessels to undergo that upgrade. During that time, the original caliber big guns were replaced with much more modern versions. They do a lot more damage.”

Mitch and another man both whistled in appreciation.

“Finally,” the chief said, “she’s also equipped with both a seventy-six millimeter cannon and twenty millimeter Phalanx Close—in Weapons System, or CIWS, in military-speak. Sadly, though all of the weapons are still operational, we have no armament for them. After September Eleventh, the museum frowned upon keeping explosives onboard the ship, as I’m sure you can understand. I said before that the Spratling was a big ship.”

Professor Williams exhaled a cloud of cherry-scented pipe smoke and interrupted him. “That’s all very impressive, Chief. But what’s the bad news?”

“I was getting to that. To be honest, there is all sorts of bad news. The Spratling hasn’t actually been out to sea in years, and I’m afraid to push her. We’re doing okay so far, but the truth is, we could break down at any time. If that happens—well, let’s just say we’d have a difficult time getting replacement parts. But the engine and boilers are in good shape. As I said, we have two diesel engines and two gas turbines, and I estimate we have enough fuel for two weeks, if we conserve it. But if we run into trouble, we don’t have the weaponry to fight a sea battle, and we’ll have to run. The faster we go, the quicker we deplete our fuel supply.”

“What kind of trouble could we run into?” Mitch asked. “It’s not like the zombies can pilot a boat. They can’t touch us out here.” ‘ “No, they can’t. But it’s not just the dead that we have to worry about. With no law and no coastal patrols, I’m afraid the seas may be just as dangerous as the cities were. There are bad people who will take advantage of situations like this. They thrive on it. I’m sure all of you encountered them on land over the last few weeks. We could encounter them out here, as well. We might run across pirates or raiders at any time. And if that happens, we’ll have to run. We have no heavy armaments. We don’t have the means to defend ourselves, unless they board us and it comes down to small arms fire. I’ll come back to that in a minute, but first we need to talk about supplies.”

He turned to Hooper. “Cleveland, when we’re finished here, I’d like you and Tran to inventory our food supply. Obviously, we didn’t leave port with a full complement. This was a museum, not an active duty vessel. What little food we do have is stuff I managed to sneak onboard during the first few days of martial law.”

“You stayed here during the collapse?” Murphy, the man who’d lent us toothpaste earlier, asked.

Chief Maxey nodded. “I had nowhere else to go. I’m not married. I have no children. I don’t even have a pet. My apartment was just where I went to sleep. All of my free time was spent here onboard the Spratling. This was where I wanted to be. And by then, it wasn’t like we were open for tours, anyway. Early on, I raided the Whole Foods store, the aquarium’s cafeteria, and some of the restaurants at the Inner Harbor. But I was alone and couldn’t carry much at once. And to be honest, I wasn’t counting on feeding twenty people. Food and water will be our number one concern. The good news is we have fishing tackle onboard—I used to fish in the evenings after we closed to the public. And one of the displays has deep sea rods that previous sailors used. So we can supplement our rations with fish. We can catch and collect rainwater, as well. The ship has a small supply of fresh water. It was used for the water fountains and the head—that’s a rest-room for you civilians who don’t speak military. But the water tank isn’t at full capacity. I’ve shut off the showers and sinks so that we can better conserve it. The toilets and urinals are shut down, too, but I kept the head in the engineering compartment operational. We’ll show you how to get there later on. But that is the only functioning head and I ask that when you use it, you adhere to the following rule—if it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down. That will help to save water.”

We laughed at the joke, and then he continued.

“The showers in that head are also functional. Again, I ask that you adhere to a strict time limit. No longer than two minutes per person to shower. Once we fill our tanks, I’ll lift that rule. My plan is to find a base or station where we can take on supplies. Maybe we’ll try the naval base in Norfolk, or Hampton Roads or Portsmouth. There are a number of bases and commercial docks we could try. We could possibly even anchor off Ocean City or one of the other seaside resorts along the coast, and take a lifeboat in to shore.”

“But the situation in those places will be just like it was in Baltimore,” Mitch said. “Do we have enough people to fight our way into and out of a storage depot or fueling station if it’s overrun with zombies?”

“I don’t know,” the chief admitted. “But I’m glad you brought that up, Mister…?”

“Sorry. My name’s Mitch Bollinger.”

“Well, Mr. Bollinger, you raise something else that we need to talk about. Officer Runkle and I were talking earlier this morning about law and order onboard ship. Like it or not, this is our home for the foreseeable future. Now, I’m sure that all of you are very nice people, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t know for sure. Neither do you. With the exception of Mr. Bollinger and his three friends,” he nodded toward me and the kids, “all of you boarded the ship on your own last night. None of you were traveling together. It was simple luck—and the fires of course—that brought you all to the harbor at the same time. So even though we might all seem nice, we really don’t know each other. Many of you brought weapons onboard: rifles, pistols, knives—I think I even saw some grenades, though I can’t remember who had them. Officer Runkle and I feel that our best course of action is to lock all of those items up in the ship’s armory. It’s for your safety as well as everyone else’s onboard. We have children present, and it wouldn’t do for one of those weapons to find its way into their hands.”

“Hey,” Malik said, “I know how to use a gun. Grenades, too. I blew up a whole bunch of zombies last night.”

A few people in the crowd laughed, and that just made Malik angry. Glaring at them, he leaned against the rail and scowled.

“I’m sure you’re very brave, son,” Chief Maxey said. “And if you used a grenade last night, then I think it’s safe to assume it was your father or Mr. Bollinger who brought them onboard?”

I started to tell them that I wasn’t his father, but before I could, Mitch spoke up.

“I did,” Mitch said. “And I’m not too happy on the idea of giving them up, even temporarily. Like you said, we don’t know each other that well. And what if we do get attacked by marauders? How would we defend ourselves if we got boarded?”

“If we were attacked,” Runkle said, “we’d know in advance. The chief has a key to the armory. He could distribute the weapons.”

Mitch didn’t seem assured. “Is it the only key?”

“Yes.” Chief Maxey nodded. “I have a complete set of keys for the ship. The duplicates are back at the Maritime Museum offices.”

“So, no offense, Chief, but if something happened to you—if you fell overboard or lost the keys or something, and we were attacked, what would we do then? Cut through the armory door with a torch?”

“Well,” the chief admitted, “that wouldn’t be very feasible.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Mitch said. “And we don’t have the means to copy your key. Look, I don’t like the idea of all of us roaming around with guns either, but the simple fact is I’d feel more comfortable holding onto mine.”

I noticed that Officer Runkle was eyeing Mitch’s holster, as if he were contemplating making a grab for Mitch’s pistol. I tried to stay inconspicuous, but slid between the two of them, just in case. Runkle glared at me, but stepped backward. I smiled. He didn’t smile back. Must have been straight. Shame. He was a good-looking guy. I would have enjoyed getting to know him better, but the vibe he gave off was definitely a warning. Plus, I never dated cops. The world may have ended, but I still had my standards.

Runkle spoke up. “With all due respect to Mr. Bollinger, I don’t think we can—”

“He’s right,” Chief Maxey interrupted. “I hate to admit it, but he’s absolutely correct. What if something does happen to me or to the key? You’d all be shit out of luck if we really were attacked. But it doesn’t sit well letting everyone carry them around, either.”

“If I could make a suggestion,”—the professor stepped forward—“why don’t we agree to confine our personal weapons to our private quarters, and not carry them at any time while onboard ship, unless of course it’s during a general quarters situation.”

“What is general quarters?” the redheaded woman asked.

“An emergency,” the chief explained. “If we were attacked, you would hear an alarm bell over the PA system. That’s called general quarters.”

“I like the professor’s idea,” Mitch said. “How about the rest of you?”

“Sounds fair to me,” Murphy agreed. “I’ve only got a little twenty-two pistol, but I’d hate to give it up. It’s kept me alive so far.”

“Ditto,” said Basil.

Officer Runkle looked unhappy with the decision, but all of the others agreed.

The chief finally nodded with obvious reluctance. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s fair. A ship isn’t exactly a democracy, but then again, you folks really didn’t have much of a choice but to come aboard. If you want to store them in your compartments, that’s fine. However, I think we need to agree that there will be penalties for anyone who breaks that rule.”

Mitch frowned. “Such as?”

“The Spratling is also equipped with a stockade. It’s down on the lower level, right between the ship’s laundry and the boiler room.”

“And who’s in charge of that?”

Smiling, Officer Runkle stepped forward. “I am. Unless anyone has a problem with that? It makes sense. I was a cop, after all.”

He was going to be trouble—an inferiority complex with a badge, desperate for others to recognize his authority. I knew his type well. Had seen it before and hated motherfuckers like him. I’d been exposed to them all my life.

The conversation continued. We discussed the ship’s routine and schedule, and Chief Maxey gave everyone some tips about how to cope with things like seasickness, the proper way to stow our belongings, surviving inclement weather, what to do if someone fell over the side or if we had to abandon ship, and other factors of life at sea. He said that he and Turn would look over the maps and charts and try to pick a port with a minimal surrounding population. That way, there was less chance of it being overrun with the dead when we conducted our supply raid.

After answering more questions, the chief wanted to know more about each of us and any specific skills or abilities we might be able to offer. We already knew that Runkle was a cop, and he didn’t offer any other personal details. Basil Martin was a Web designer. He refused to tell us anything about his personal life, other than he’d been in the National Guard before going to college. Professor Williams told us that his fields of specialty were English literature and mythology. He was a widower—his wife had passed two years before, and his children were grown. His son lived in Thailand and his daughter in California. He hadn’t heard from either since the nation’s communication grid went down. Our new friend Joan Barnett went next. She was a dental hygienist. Turned out her spouse had passed away, too-dying from lung cancer in a room at Greater Baltimore Medical Center as the dead first began to stalk the streets. He’d died alone. She’d been unable to get to him because of martial law. The hospital had confirmed his passing. She never made arrangements because soon after, arrangements no longer mattered. Murphy’s first name was Ollie. He was a boiler operator. Chief Maxey got excited by that news. He’d spent the last few weeks holed up in a bar on Pratt Street, which was no surprise, judging by the telltale alcoholic veins in his nose. Cleveland Hooper had been a cook at a diner. Twice divorced, he’d been hiding out from deputies looking to serve a warrant for non-payment of child support, and hadn’t even been aware of the zombies at first. Hooper had also served a four-year stint in the navy. Nobody knew anything about Tran, and even if he hadn’t been washing dishes, he wouldn’t have been able to tell us about himself. Mitch told everyone he was a Bible salesman and firearms enthusiast. Then it was my turn. I introduced myself and then the kids.

After that, we met the other passengers. The redheaded woman was Carol Beck. She was a quality control manager at an injection molding plant and had been trying to flee the city. Stuck in a traffic jam on Interstate Eighty-three, she’d gotten out of her car to get a better cell phone signal. As she stood there, zombies had swarmed the on-ramp, forcing drivers to flee. She’d hid inside a factory. Next was Cliff Shatner, a young kid in his early twenties. He’d been a student at Towson University, majoring in journalism, and was partying in Fells Point when everything fell apart. He’d been trapped downtown, hiding inside the basement of the Soundgarden music shop. Stephanie Pollack didn’t look so well when she introduced herself. Her skin was pale and dripping sweat. Her pupils were dilated. At first I thought it was the heat, but we soon learned that she was diabetic and had run out of insulin. The fires had forced her to flee quickly, and her supply of insulin had burned up with her apartment. We were concerned for her, but there wasn’t much we could do. It was a hopeless, demoralizing feeling. It seemed so unfair—to survive the fires and the zombies, only to have your own body turn against you. And yet she was a trooper. She’d stood on the flight deck the whole time, baking in the heat, listening patiently as we talked and debated, and not once had she complained. Basil and Hooper, on the other hand, had done nothing but bitch since we’d got there. The chief told Stephanie to go lie down, promised he’d do anything he could to make her more comfortable, and had Joan escort her back to her compartment. He promised that if we could get to a port quickly, the first thing he’d look for was insulin. I thought the chances of that were pretty slim, but I kept that to myself.

We had two teenagers in the group: a boy and a girl. The boy’s name was Nick Kontis. His father had owned a Greek restaurant just off President Street. He’d watched his entire family get slaughtered by those things. He’d survived by hiding inside the restaurant’s walk—in freezer. The night of the fires, he’d crept out, looking for water. He’d stumbled, literally, over a zombie a few minutes later. Legless, it had been crawling around in the dining area, munching on rancid, spoiled meat. The girl was Alicia Crawford. She was shy and soft-spoken, and we didn’t learn much about her other than her name. She stared at the deck the whole time and kept cleaning her eyeglasses on her shirt. The last two passengers were Chuck Mizello and Tony Giovanni. Chuck was a forklift operator with four years of army experience, including a tour in Iraq. He’d taken shelter in a warehouse and survived on the contents of the vending machines. Tony was a tow truck driver. He barricaded himself in a hotel room across from the Inner Harbor. Like Mitch, he was a firearms enthusiast. I noticed that he scored points with my friend when he complimented the pistol at Mitch’s side.

Once the introductions were finished, each of us were assigned duties. According to Chief Maxey the biggest danger at sea was boredom, so each of us needed a task to perform. Keep our minds occupied. Hooper and Tran were in charge of the galley, and Nick volunteered to help them since he had a restaurant background. Runkle was going to help Chief Maxey and Turn on the bridge. Murphy was the obvious choice for engineering, since he’d been a boiler operator. Chuck, Tony, and the college kid, Cliff, volunteered to help him. Cliff didn’t look happy when Murphy warned him it would be hot, dirty work, but he didn’t change his mind either. Guess he wanted to fit in, make a good impression. Mitch, Basil, Professor Williams, and I pulled fishing duty. Carol suggested that someone should work with the kids, a shipboard school of sorts. Chief Maxey was hesitant about the idea, but she finally convinced him it was important. He didn’t look thrilled. Neither did Tasha and Malik. I guess the one nice thing about the end of civilization was that they didn’t have to go to school anymore. Carol would teach them in the mornings, assisted by Alicia. In the afternoons, they’d perform other duties, as would the kids. Joan was temporarily assigned to care for Stephanie.

After we had our assignments, the chief excused us all, promising to give us an update as soon as he and Turn decided on a safe destination. The group separated, some of them moving off together, others leaving by themselves. Chuck had a tennis ball (I don’t know where the hell he’d found it) and gave it to Malik and Tasha to toss around. I warned them not to get too close to the edge of the flight deck, and then let them run off. Felt good to see them having fun, if only for a little while. They tossed the ball back and forth, bouncing it off the flight deck’s black, sun-baked surface. I pulled away from the others and stood by myself against the railing. Gazed out at the sea. I’d never been on the open water like this, and despite the seasickness and the memories of what had led us to the Spratling in the first place, I was enjoying it. When I looked out at the water, there was nothing in all four directions. No buildings. No mountaintops. No land at all. There was just an endless, flat sheet of gray and white, broken only by the rolling waves. It was easy enough for me to imagine that there was nothing else beyond the horizons—no cities or countries or people. No dead. As I watched, something—I think it was a dolphin—jumped from the water, spun through the air, and then splashed back into the ocean, disappearing beneath the surface. I smiled. Three more appeared and did the same thing. It was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen.

“Dolphins,” a voice beside me said, confirming what they were.

I turned. It was Tony Giovanni, the tow truck driver. He’d moved next to me along the railing while I was watching the waves, but I’d been distracted and hadn’t noticed.

“I wasn’t sure what the hell they were,” I admitted. “Sort of look like sharks.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” he said. “Especially when all you can see is their dorsal fin sticking out of the water.”

“You been around them much?”

Shrugging, he patted his pockets till he found a half pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then offered the pack to me.

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“I don’t guess I’ll be smoking much longer, either. It’s gonna be ugly when I run out. Not as ugly as if that Murphy guy runs out of booze, but still…”

He thumbed his lighter, shielding the flame with his hand so that the wind wouldn’t blow it out, and then continued.

“My wife and I used to take trips—you know, those whale watching or ‘Swim with the Dolphins’ things? She loved nature. So do I. Paid sixty bucks a month for cable TV and the only thing either of us watched was the Discovery Channel. So yeah, I’ve seen them up close. Usually, they just follow the boat, looking for handouts. Same way the birds do.”

He pointed upward. A flock of seagulls circled overhead, squawking at one another.

“They’ll follow us for days, just waiting on any scraps we throw them. They’re trained, almost. Fuckers love to eat. If the birds ever caught Hamelin’s Revenge, we’d all be fucked.”

I nodded, and then turned my attention back to the sea. The dolphins were gone.

He exhaled smoke. “You ever been on a boat?”

“No,” I said. “First time. Still a little seasick.”

“Next time you go down to the galley, see if that Hooper guy has any crackers. Saltines work best. Eat a bunch of those and try not to drink much, and you’ll be okay. They soak up all the liquid in your stomach.”

“Thanks. I’ll try that.”

The tennis ball rolled over to us, bounced off Tony’s shoe and almost went over the side. Tony bent down, picked it up, and tossed it back to Tasha.

“Thanks,” she shouted.

He smiled, watching them play.

“Cute kids,” he said. “Got to tell you, until we introduced ourselves, I would have sworn you were their daddy.”

I laughed. “Not me. It’s funny, though. You’re not the first person that said that. The professor thought the same thing, and the chief brought it up just a few minutes ago.”

“You must look alike.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the comment. Was it innocent or was he implying that all black people looked the same? He must have known what I was thinking.

“Hey, man, don’t get the wrong idea. That’s not what I meant.”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Yeah, I hear you. No sweat. Just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. All I meant is that you guys looked like family.”

“I don’t have much of a family. Just a brother, and he’s long gone.”

“Well,” he said, “you do now. Those kids dote on you. Can see it in their eyes, the way they look at you when you talk. My kids used to…”

Tony couldn’t finish. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but no sound came out. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “Every time I think I can talk about them… Shit. Guess I should get down to the boiler room and let Murphy show me what to do. If I can even find it, that is. This ship’s like a damn maze. Nice talking to you, Lamar.”

“You too, Tony.”

I watched him go, shoulders slumped, head to the deck. He didn’t look at anyone as he passed them, especially the kids. I felt sorry for the guy. Sorry for us all. We’d survived. We’d beat the odds. We were still alive. But was it worth it?

I watched Tasha and Malik as they played and decided that it was; if only for them.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the rail, letting the ocean breeze cool my skin. I listened to the roar of the waves. Listened to the screeching birds. Listened to the kid’s laughter. It all blended together.

With my eyes shut, it sounded like screams.

Stephanie died in the middle of the night. Weak and dehydrated, she’d slipped into a diabetic coma shortly before sundown. Wasn’t much any of us could do for her. Joan kept her warm and wiped her forehead with a cool washcloth. Held her hand and talked to her. Watched her go and made sure she didn’t do it alone. Sometimes, that’s the best you can hope for in this world.

Stephanie Pollack had lived in an apartment in Baltimore and was diabetic. That was all any of us knew about her. Joan said that before she’d slipped into the coma, Stephanie had whispered some names. But those names had died with her. No tears were shed. We hadn’t known her long enough. It was sad. Demoralizing and depressing. We were still human after all, and another human’s passing, even a stranger’s, was cause for reflection. But what was there to reflect on, except our own fucked-up situation? How to remember her? Stephanie had no purse, no identification, nothing that would give us a deeper glimpse into her life and who she’d been. Her locker was empty, as was the storage space beneath her rack. Was she married? There was no ring on her ringer, so probably not. Divorced, then? Widowed? Gay? Did she have children, and if so, were they still alive somewhere out there, or had they joined the ranks of the others? Brothers or sisters? She must have had parents, at least. Were they alive or dead? We would never know.

Again, I found myself wondering what the fucking point was. Why continue fighting, continue struggling to survive? In the end, you died with a bunch of strangers who couldn’t even eulogize you properly because they didn’t know shit about you. When you died, you were supposed to live on in the memories of others. That’s what I’d always been told. Didn’t matter what you believed, which religion you subscribed to, what god you worshipped. The simple fact was that none of us knew what lies beyond. Immortality and eternal life? The only sure shot at that was the memories of those you left behind—your friends and family. But if you had no one, if you were alone in this world, who would remember you when you were gone? If memories were your only shot at eternal life, and there was no one to remember you, what then? If there was such a thing as a soul, what happened to it? Maybe death was all there really was. Maybe there was no such thing as eternal life. But now, even death wasn’t the end, thanks to Hamelin’s Revenge. Did the zombies still have their souls or were they just hollow shells? Could the person who’d once inhabited their bodies still be alive inside, conscious even after death, and if so, did they scream?

Why not just go outside, climb over the rail, let go, and fall into the ocean? After all we’d seen and done in life, and all that had happened to us, both good and bad, all the triumphs and tragedies and everything associated with them, what was the fucking point? Was it all just to die among a bunch of strangers who barely knew your name? Or to end up inside a zombie’s stomach or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?

Word of Stephanie’s death spread quickly through the ship. Murphy woke Mitch and me to tell us. He’d stood in the passageway, leaning through our hatch, silhouetted in red light. His breath smelled like cough syrup and his voice was slurred. If he was down to drinking cough syrup already, what would he do when he ran out of that? I wondered if there was any rubbing alcohol onboard.

After Murphy left, Mitch and I didn’t talk. The kids hadn’t woken up and we didn’t want to disturb them. Soon I heard Mitch softly snoring again. It amazed me, how quickly he’d fallen asleep. I lay there in the darkness, hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. My rack swayed with the ship, but I wasn’t queasy. Tony’s suggestion had worked. During dinner, I’d wolfed down a bunch of saltine crackers. They’d done the trick. No more seasickness.

Heartsickness—there was no cure.

I didn’t fall back asleep.

The others slept like the dead. I wondered if they dreamed and wished that I could, if only to escape this world for a little while. Even a nightmare would have been welcome. It certainly couldn’t have been as bad as reality.

The next morning, we buried Stephanie at sea. She’d died of natural causes, so she didn’t come back. No worries there. She did what dead people were supposed to do. Old school. Just slipped beneath the waves and passed from this world.

She was the lucky one.

Before we committed her body to the sea, Chief Maxey asked if anybody would like to say anything. Perhaps a prayer or a Bible verse. Everyone looked at Mitch. Embarrassed, he explained that he only sold Bibles and didn’t actually know much about them. Cliff eventually volunteered.

After it was all over and she’d sunk beneath the surface, Cliff approached Mitch and I. He touched Mitch’s shoulder.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Bollinger, but you should get in touch with God again. It’s obvious you believed at one point in your life.” Mitch brushed him away. “How’s it obvious?” “Well, you’re probably a very good salesman, and a good salesman always knows his product. Try reconnecting with the Lord. It might bring you comfort, with all that’s happened. It does for me. He can be a mighty pillar of strength.”

Mitch exhaled. “Let me get this straight. With all that’s happened you still believe in God?” “Of course. Now more than ever.” “Well good for you, kid. Now fuck off.” Cliff flinched as if Mitch had slapped him. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be. Congratulations.” “Look, exactly what is your problem?” Mitch’s smile held no humor. “You’ve still got your faith. Meanwhile, I got nothing. So get the fuck away from me before I throw you over the rail and we find out once and for all if the Lord is watching over you.”

Cliff stomped away in a huff. When he was gone, I nudged Mitch.

“You think you, were a little too hard on that kid?” Mitch shrugged. “Hell with him. Look, I don’t care if he’s a Christian. Seriously, I’m cool with everyone. Good for him. There’s nothing wrong with that. But he’s got no right to try proselytizing me. I hate that shit. Just because he’s still a believer, doesn’t mean I’ve got to be one, too.”

“Maybe it’s his faith that keeps him going.”

“I’m sure it is. And you know what else? I’ll admit it—I’m jealous as fuck.”

I nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I know what you mean. What keeps you going, Mitch?”

He stared out at the water, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, I had to strain to hear him over the seagulls and the waves.

“I don’t know, Lamar. I don’t know what keeps me going. And sometimes, I wish that whatever it is would just stop.”

I nodded again. Once more, I empathized all too well.